Deception's Daughter (The Martha Beale Mysteries, 2)

by Cordelia Frances Biddle

  Becky frowns at the missive. Despite her safe home and the reassuring sound of servants passing to and fro across its polished floors, anxiety attacks her. She’s fully aware that the man who sent this message is being hunted as a murderer and thief; and that she once touched his vile hands, accepted his handkerchief—and then concealed the ominous events of that day from her husband.

  Circumstances have inveighed against me, however, madam, and I now find myself blamed for an act I did not commit. Nor never would have committed in this life. You will know to what I refer. The lesser accusations against my person may or may not be justified, but that singular deed is not of my doing. I may have sinned, but never, never that! Madam, you and I had conversation. I ask you as a good Christian lady who walks about in churchyards

  Becky stops reading; her fingers are slick and trembling as she tears the letter in half, and then in quarters. She hurries toward the bell pull to call the servant who delivered the missive and question him regarding the person who brought it, then stops halfway. She can’t risk having William learn of this communication. What would he say about me consorting with thieves and assassins? Or about the day I permitted this Stokes to rob me and then set his minions to work their crime in our home? What if William were to discover I lied? Not once, but twice—and had my purse jumbled up with a dead woman’s stolen possessions, too?

  Becky rends the paper again. Her heart is beating very fast, and her breath is shallow and quick. What can this Stokes want from me? Why did he write? Is he still in this city, and not fled from it as the newspapers report? Could it be he who carried this letter to my house? Can he be as brazen as that?

  Becky’s feet tread in tight circles as she thinks. By now fear of Findal Stokes has begun to outweigh her concerns about her husband. The man is a demon. He must be caught. But not with my aid. I’ve enough to fret over, and I’m soon to be a mother, after all.

  Then her nobler instincts again rise. Stop this at once. You’re a strong woman, not a mouse trapped in a corner. Consider the roles you played. Lady Macbeth wouldn’t have whimpered like this. Lady Anne wouldn’t have cringed before King Richard. But the analysis fails, for neither of Shakespeare’s two heroines was capable of saving herself.

  “Oh, I wish I had Martha Beale’s inheritance,” Becky sputters, then resolves to visit her new friend. Martha must take charge of the letter; she can take it to Thomas Kelman.

  And William need never know.

  NIGHT

  MARTHA REASSEMBLES BECKY’S LETTER, SLIDING the pieces together to form a whole: the curving tail of a Y to match its cup, the leg of a T to meet the crossbar. Nearby, the missive’s recipient paces back and forth across her hostess’s sitting room: chair back to chair back, table to chest-on-chest, window to curtained window, where her hands briefly flutter across the drapery fabric as though toying with a stage scrim while pondering the difficulties of performing an arduous scene.

  … I now find myself blamed for an act I did not commit. Nornever would have committed in this life… I may have sinned, but never, never that!

  Martha’s frown deepens into a protective scowl; she continues reading in silence, then looks up to watch Becky’s anxious procession. “I’m deeply disturbed that the man dared approach your house. His hirelings entered it before; they could again, and perhaps intent upon greater mischief.”

  “Oh, I don’t believe so. Taitt has made the place secure as any fortress.”

  “And then, too, you walked here. Alone and in the dark, where anyone could have—”

  “I was on our lighted city streets, Martha, and keeping fully cognizant of those around me. No sane person would have accosted me.” Becky tosses off these words, but her restive pacing doesn’t lessen.

  Martha makes no answer for a moment; instead, she returns to the letter. Her gray eyes flash nearly as black as Thomas Kelman’s. “And are you convinced this Stokes is sane? The garbled quotations from the Book of Isaiah with which he concludes his message seem like the ranting of a madman. Especially the list of physical afflictions perpetrated upon women. If those aren’t threats, veiled or otherwise, I don’t know what is.”

  “They’re merely words.”

  “But hateful ones. ‘Burning instead of beauty,’ nakedness and desolation—”

  “Sticks and stones,” Becky interjects, but Martha interrupts her.

  “Are you familiar with the preacher Amor Alsberg?”

  “This has nothing to do with him or his lunatic devotees. There will always be those who condemn people other than themselves and find rationale by quoting the Bible—”

  “Alsberg may be capable of exhorting his flock to genuine acts of violence, however. And this Stokes has listened to him. I know, because—”

  “Yes. Yes, but so have a great many other impoverished people. Or not so impoverished. It’s not Alsberg or his motives or methods I came to discuss, though.” Becky stands still. “Oh, help me, Martha! I’ve begun a deceit and now am trapped in it.”

  “Not trapped, surely. And your deceit, as you call it, is mild when compared to—”

  “I can’t show this thing to my husband. That much is certain. Oh, why did this vile man write to me? What can he want—other than to rave about his supposed innocence regarding the Crowther death—?”

  “And frighten you—”

  “Well, he succeeded. Although perhaps not as he intended.” Before Martha can reply, Becky’s words rush forward again. “Take the letter to Thomas Kelman for me. Tell him all I’ve said, how I came by it—and impress upon him the need for discretion—”

  “But Becky, wouldn’t it be better to give the missive to your husband? If you conceal this—”

  “I can’t show it to William. I can’t. I won’t.”

  “What if Thomas wishes to question you or the servant who received it?”

  “I don’t see the purpose in that.” Despite the stubbornness of her tone, Becky’s pose remains irresolute as if she were pausing in flight. “Please, Martha, will you? Please. For me. Kelman should see this. You know he should. Despite Stokes’s assertion to the contrary, the man must be captured and punished as the abhorrent criminal he is.”

  “And you have no notion why he approached you?”

  “None! None!” Becky’s hands flail at the air; her face is zigzagged with worry and self-rebuke. “Why did I hide the loss of that silly reticule? And my parasol, too. How foolish and stupid.”

  “Then put an end to your prevarications. Husband and wife should be honest in all they do and say. William will forgive this insignificant lapse in judgment, I’m certain. After all, a parasol and purse are of little consequence when compared to the greater human quandaries at issue here.”

  Becky’s panicked state won’t permit her to heed this reasonable counsel. “Now those small lies will give William cause to doubt everything else about me. Everything! My suitability as a wife, my fitness as the mother of his child—”

  “You did what you did, Becky. You can’t revise the past. As to your anxiety about being an inadequate wife and mother, it’s wholly unfounded—”

  “Oh, my dear, you’re so naive.” The words are like a moan.

  Instead of taking the accusation amiss, Martha answers with calm and assurance. “I can’t judge the strength of your marital bond. I can only state that you had an illustrious career, that you’re a forceful personality, and that your husband must have wed you because of those excellent attributes. And I repeat my belief that man and wife should be candid with one another in all their transactions—”

  “Taitt wooed me because I was a feather in his cap, pure and simple. What ardor he originally professed is gone.”

  Martha studies the bleak face confronting her and knows Becky believes every word she has uttered. “Perhaps your present condition has elicited sensations of delicacy and restraint in your husband; and therefore his behavior seems aloof or even chilly. After your baby is delivered, I’m sure you and he—”

  “And if
I’m found lacking then? You know as well as I do that Taitt could claim the child while banishing the mother. Especially if I give birth to a boy. Imagine how quickly the elite of Philadelphia will jump to his defense if he decides to divorce me. Then where will I be? Treading the boards again? Not in this city, that’s certain. Not with scandal heaped upon my head.”

  “He wouldn’t divorce you, Becky. He has no cause. Come, stop your fretting. As you just said, you have no idea why the reprehensible Stokes wrote to you. Surely your husband should take umbrage at the man’s insolence rather than condemn you for an invented iniquity.”

  “Invented,” Becky echoes, then lapses into silence while Martha again tries to reason with her.

  “I’ve heard that pregnant women can experience confusion and even unhappiness at their altered state. In your case, having been so lauded for your grace and physical beauty…” The words trail away as Martha’s brow creases with a newfound worry. “Taitt would not… He would never raise his hand to you? Despite your present feelings of unease, he’s a fair man who behaves honorably, isn’t he?”

  But Becky’s response is a repeated request that Stokes’s letter be delivered to Thomas Kelman.

  “Answer me, please. He would never strike you, would he?”

  “Not yet, he hasn’t” is the quiet reply.

  “Oh, Becky!” It’s now Martha’s turn to pace the room. She sighs, and her whalebone corset stays creak out her distress. “But such an act is beyond contempt. Taitt is a cultivated gentleman, well educated and of good standing in our community. He’s too urbane a person to—”

  “To express anger or outrage?”

  “Not in the horrid manner you suggest.”

  “Oh, Martha, no matter what you want to believe, husbands are masters in their households; and a wife is simply an adjunct to that property. Sometimes, I think he views me as being no different than the slaves he keeps at his estate in the Carolinas. I never saw such abject souls until I came to live in this country.”

  “You’re not a slave. Nor any approximation of one—”

  “What do you know of marriage, Martha Beale! You, who can choose to wed or not. Who can pick whatever spouse you desire—and rid yourself of him, too, I’ll warrant.” The angry speech is out before Becky has time to consider its effect. She flings herself down upon a divan. “I’m sorry. That was unkind. And to you, of all people. Please forgive me. I’ve never been able to bridle my tongue, and I seem to have grown even less circumspect recently.”

  “What you said is true nonetheless” is Martha’s equitable answer, although her expression reflects her hurt. “My advice must sound antiquated and pedantic to a woman of your experience. A spinster dispensing words of wisdom on the vicissitudes of love.”

  “I didn’t mean to wound you, Martha.”

  “I understand that.”

  “It seems I can do nothing right at the moment. Nothing at all. I lie when I could as easily tell the truth. I weep instead of showing courage. I snipe at my maid, and rail at my dressmaker when the fault is solely mine.”

  “You’ve become a master of pessimism and self-rebuke, at any rate,” Martha tells her with a wry smile.

  Becky’s short laugh is bitter. “I’d rather impart optimism and joy—not cause pain to those around me. Especially to my friends.”

  “Then so you shall.” That declaration delivered, Martha remains silent for a long moment. The clock upon the mantel ticks; the lamplight fizzles, ebbing and waning as the wicks burn, and stirring the familiar shadows of the room. Beyond the windows the sky is dark, lending the scene an even more sequestered air. “Your outburst is forgiven, Becky; and I want you to understand that you have a true friend in me. I will stand by you whenever—and however—you wish it.”

  Becky’s features don’t soften in relief, although her face gradually relaxes its preoccupied expression. “Thank you. I won’t forget your kindness. Your many kindnesses.” Then she also sighs, and a little of her former fortitude returns while Martha continues in a serious tone.

  “But I also ask you to consider that your pregnancy may be causing you to see hobgoblins where there are none. Think back to your first meetings with your husband, and what attracted you to him and him to you. I’m certain all will be well when you’re safely delivered of this child. Better, indeed, than before because you’ll be a family.”

  “Yes …”

  “You can and will make it so. Don’t forget who you are.”

  Becky sighs again, but the sound is more reassured. “That memory is always with me—for good or ill.”

  “For good, then. Make it for good.”

  “Yes.”

  “Promise me that. No more recriminations. Be the Becky Grey who was and you’ll win over Philadelphia. I promise.”

  “Yes.” She rises from her recumbent position. “Yes … Perhaps … But let us dispense with the vagaries of my brain and reattach this letter so you can give it to Kelman. Perhaps you could send a manservant to find him. I’ll be gone before he arrives.” She lifts a hand in protest to Martha’s imagined retort. “Don’t say anything more. I’ll follow your advice and explain everything to William. I will. I guarantee I will. But let us address the issue with your Mr. Kelman first.” So intent has Becky been on her own woes that Martha’s dismay at the repeated mention of Thomas’s name has gone unnoticed until now. “Oh, my dear! There’s nothing amiss, is there?”

  Martha’s lips part to speak, but no sound comes. Her eyes rove from Becky’s to the tattered letter, then to the table beneath it and finally to the carpet below that while her mind races through a variety of replies. There’s glib untruth, delivered with a short and practiced laugh; there’s coy secrecy, overt denial, or no answer at all. There’s also honesty—which choice picks her before she’s aware of having made a decision.

  “Thomas and I have an understanding … At least, I believed we did—” Then the entire complex history comes rolling out, not the least of which is Weil’s unexpected declaration.

  When the narrative is finished, Becky knits her fingers together in concentrated thought. “What do you propose to do?”

  “Well… Ella wants Thomas to help find her birth mother, and I—”

  “No. You. What do you propose?”

  “Send him a brief note, I suppose, and suggest he call upon us in order to speak with Ella. She recalled some words or prayers her mother recited. Then, perhaps, when he and I are discussing that situation I can ascertain—”

  “Martha, for pity’s sake! I came to you for help because you’re strong and capable, and here you are blithering like a convent schoolgirl rather than following your own advice. Weren’t you just cautioning honesty in all situations? Express your true feelings to Thomas. If there’s been a misunderstanding, that’s the only way you’ll learn of it—”

  “Perhaps, when he arrives to view Stokes’s letter—”

  “Oh, damn Stokes!” Becky throws herself back onto the divan, the movement so abrupt that several small pillows skitter to the floor.

  “But he’s the reason you came to see me.”

  “Very well. You need an excuse to visit Thomas in his private rooms. Let my letter be the reason—”

  “Becky, no! Such a visit would be unseemly.”

  “Why? If your purpose is to help apprehend a murderer.”

  Martha stares back, wide-eyed at the suggestion. “People would talk. It’s not fitting I be seen there. It would put us both in a terribly compromised position—”

  “Would a man like Kelman care about such niceties, do you think?”

  “Not for himself, certainly, but I’m sure he’d be concerned about my reputation.”

  “And what about you? Are you worried that the gossipmongers will tattle about your behavior?”

  Martha thinks. “I was once…”

  “But now you’re questioning polite society’s dominion over your life,” Becky finishes the thought. “So I repeat my question: Why can’t you call upon him, rather
than he you? Because I fear this house and all its elegant possessions would dampen the ardor of all but the wealthiest of suitors.”

  “Oh, but—” Martha starts to protest, but Becky overrides the hesitant words.

  “If you’re in love with him and he with you, you must act upon it. I took my first lover when I was seventeen, and I assure you he was no elderly patron of the arts desirous of pretty speech and nothing more—”

  “Oh!” is all Martha can utter.

  “Is that too shocking to mention?”

  “Perhaps not for others’ ears, but I’ve never held this type of conversation—”

  “Then it’s time you do. I understand all too well the dictates of a modern and civilized community, and this Quakerish city in particular. However, if you study Shakespeare as much as I have, or Congreve or Sheridan, you realize that the world was an earthier place in our forebears’ days. There’s nothing wrong with passion; it’s deceit and guile that are at fault. As you yourself have so ardently reminded me.” Becky stands and marches to the table containing the shredded letter. “Let us paste this unpleasant thing together. You can carry it with you. But don’t let it interfere with the real purpose of your visit. Another day of Stokes wandering free will hardly matter in the grander scheme of life.”

  Martha watches her friend. “I will agree to your plan if you also grant me a request—that you will allow me to have a footman escort you home, and that you explain the purpose of this visit to your husband. When Stokes is brought to justice, I believe, William Taitt will have cause to feel pride—rather than dismay—at his wife’s involvement.”

  WITH THE LETTER IN HER purse and Becky returned home, Martha sets forth toward Kelman’s lodgings. A sense of urgency impels her, but instead of hurrying along with her eyes pinned to the road and her shoe leather slip-slapping at the cobbles, she marches erect, studying the streetlamps, the fitfully lit brick facades of the neighboring houses, the windows behind which other householders are idling away the late evening hours by reading aloud to one another or playing musical instruments or listening to their children recite their bedtime prayers. For an infinitesimal moment, her eyes fill with panic, not because of her mission but because she may be proven wrong. Despite what occurred four days past, Thomas may reject her overture; he may think it coarse and unmannerly. Or he may become so engrossed in Findal Stokes that there will be no opportunity for personal discussion. But then she reminds herself that this is her only choice. The time for hesitation is over.